


Forget-Me-Not

by Amonet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tears, This happens when I try to write happy stuff, more hurt tbh, set after reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9713525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amonet/pseuds/Amonet
Summary: "He takes her flowers on his way to the graveyard, sometimes. He doesn’t think about it, to be honest, because thinking makes everything worse now." - Sherlock Holmes is dead and John can't cope and can't forget. There is too much left unsaid.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr post and if I could remember which one, I would post a link. Something about dying I think, it doesn't fit in there anyway.

**Forget-Me-Not**

 

He takes her flowers on his way to the graveyard, sometimes. He doesn’t think about it, to be honest, because thinking makes everything worse now. So he doesn’t think, he just does. Every Wednesday he takes some of the blue ones, just a few, five or six usually, of the tiny forget-me-nots from her garden. On Christmas, he takes a white rose, from the florist. On special anniversaries he takes lilies and on the anniversary he takes a single red rose. That’s how he had always done it. Then, one day, she is there.

“You are taking my flowers.” She says and stands up from her bench. He had expected her to be old for some reason, not that he had given it much thought, but she is young, 30-something probably and pretty, blonde hair and grey eyes, too pretty for a woman living in an old house in an area with people over 60 and in sight of a graveyard.

“I am.” He says, not willing to defend himself.

“Are they for a girl?” She asks and takes a step in his direction, just to freeze immediately and stand still in between the wooden bench and the man.

He also stops for a moment, unsure what to say. They weren’t, but he’d rather lie than to break her heart with the truth. They are for a grave.

“So they are,” she says. “Is she pretty?”

Frozen he stands there, a few forget-me-nots in his hand, uncertain wherever to run away or to stay to get this over with.

“What about this: You show me the girl and I let you keep taking my flowers.” It isn’t really a question, more of a statement.

“I’m sorry,” he says and for a few moments, it is quiet.

“She must be a very pretty girl if you steal flowers for her every week.” The woman says softly and takes another step in his direction. “I just want to make sure she is pretty enough to warrant flower theft.” She smiles and for a moment he is so intrigued by the way her eyes looked when she smiles that he didn’t realise that she had picked up some other flowers and added them to the forget-me-nots. It had been a long time since he’d had seen someone smile in such a pretty, honest way. “I’ll follow you. I won’t interrupt I promise,” she smiles again and adds, “If she’s really pretty I won’t even tell her that you are stealing the flowers.”

 

He takes the flowers and turns around, not caring whether the woman follows him. Caring is something he gave up 2 years ago. He just goes, through her garden door, further down the street, through the shortcut between Number 13 and 15 and onto the cemetery road. Only when they arrive at the graveyard gate the woman stops.

 

“Why are we-,” she starts but falls silent when she sees his face, realising that there is no girl, no pretty, young woman, with sparkling eyes and red lips to admire. She doesn’t say anything, she just follows him inside the gates, through row and row of polished stone and crying angels and then finally he sits down in front of a black gravestone with still too clear, too fresh golden writing on it. In front of the gravestone, next to the yellow autumn leaves that fell down from the maple tree, he can still see some dried forget-me-nots, from his last visit.

 

He doesn’t look up, just keeps staring at the tombstone, the flowers in his hand, ignoring the woman behind him. Crying doesn’t help. Screaming doesn’t help. Nothing in this world can help him now.

 

“I am very sorry.” The woman says behind him and for a moment he wants to tell her to just shut up go away. Then he decided to just not say anything, keep quiet and wait for her to leave.

“You must have loved him very much.” She doesn’t sit down but she doesn’t go away either. “I know it hurts now, but it will get better. It doesn’t go away but it gets better, eventually. I promise.”

“It doesn’t,” He says, voice rough like from a cold. “It’s been two years and it doesn’t get better. Nothing will ever get better. He’s dead.”

“I know.” She says and puts a single forget-me-not in front of the grave. “But one day it won’t seem like the end of the world anymore. One day it will be alright. Because wherever he is right now, I’m sure he’d want you to be happy. And maybe one day, you’ll realise that too. I know you loved him, but there is no point being sad forever. Someday you’ll have to let go. If you cling to it, it will kill you. He wouldn’t want you dead too, believe me. You loved him, he must have been a good person.”

“He wasn’t. He was a bit of an ass,” he says and his voice is shaking but he is not giving in to the tears because crying means weakness and weakness means another breakdown. Breakdowns aren’t good, they leave him with a headache, feeling empty and with a metallic taste in his mouth from biting his tongue too hard.

“Aren’t all the good people?” She tries to smile but you can see that it makes her sad too. He never liked making people sad.

“You have to forget someday. Accept that it is over. Move on. If you get stuck in the grief you won’t help anybody, least of all yourself. If he loved you even half as much as you loved him he’d want you to continue with your life at some point. He’d want you to get back to a normal life.”

 

He fights the tears and he wins. This time.

 

“You still love him, I know. And I know it feels like forever that you’ve heard his voice and his smile and the way he talks just to you like you are special and I know you miss the smallest things but it is important that you stop thinking about it every second of the day. Don’t let the grief eat you too.” She leaves, after that. And he is alone.

 

She knows nothing, the woman. She doesn’t know how much he loved him, how much he wishes he’d have told him that, just once. Maybe that would have kept him from jumping. Now he’ll never know because Sherlock Holmes is dead and nothing can bring him back.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on tumblr or send me a prompt! I'm [Amonet-writes](https://amonet-writes.tumblr.com) over there!


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